Voice Lessons
by Shhasow
Summary: Zahir wants to be Voice, more than anything, no matter what Jon says.  Written for Goldenlake's SMACKDOWN.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This multi-chaptered fic was initially inspired by Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind. If you recognize a few lines or a situation, that is the source. This is Jon mentoring Zahir, not in a relationship. I own nothing. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Voice Lessons<strong>

**Chapter One  
><strong>

Zahir searched the entire palace, looking for the king. He was a fourth-year page now, he had no prospects for a knight-master, and he was getting desperate.

He refused to settle for some lowly border knight. He especially refused to be squire to a palace knight who rode only mountains of paperwork, not thundersome chargers.

The Bazhir wanted the king, not because he was king, but because he was the Voice, and he couldn't be the Voice forever. More than anything, Zahir wanted to be the next Voice. It was his purpose, his reason for being. Zahir was to become the first Bazhir knight under the first Tortallan Voice. It would wed both worlds together, bring an end to the schism that still affected the tribesmen. After all, just because they could not war against the Voice didn't mean they had to cooperate.

It was meant to be, Zahir decided. He would explain everything to the Voice, ask him to take him as a squire and not his son, Roald. However, first Zahir had to find him.

Hours later, after having given up his search for the missing king, Zahir was returning from a foray from his favorite tavern in the Upper City of Corus when he stopped suddenly. Zahir had fruitlessly combed the palace for hours to find the king, who was now watching him from atop the curtain wall.

Zahir cursed under his breath and quickened his steps before the man moved yet again. By the time he entered the palace, shoved open the doors to the guardhouse below the curtain wall, and raced up the stairs, the king was at the other end, and Zahir forced his leaden muscles to move faster. He regretted the last few drinks at the Squire's Pony, and contained the urge to taste it a second time.

The king raised an eyebrow at the Bazhir's rapid - and slightly staggering - approach. "May I help you, Page Zahir?"

The out-of-breath page could only nod weakly and clutch his side until the stitch gradually disappeared. "Yes, sire. Have, have you yet taken a squire?"

Jonathan frowned slightly. "Does it matter?"

"Sire." Zahir took a deep breath and met his blue eyes. "You ought to take me as your squire."

The other eyebrow joined its brother. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I can be the next Voice."

The king looked steadily at the young man, then gave one simple, dismissive answer. "No."

Zahir felt himself deflate. "But, sire-"

Jon rounded on the boy. "Why do I need a successor, Page? Am I getting too old?"

"No, but-"

"Do you think I'm going to die in some terrible horrible mangling accident?"

"No!"

"You haven't considered that Roald is already training for the duty?"

"No, sire-"

"Would you do a better job than I?"

"Yes!" Zahir slapped a hand over his traitorous mouth.

Jon stiffened and glared at the presumptuous page. "Indeed," he said dangerously. "Enlighten me."

Zahir opened his mouth, shut it, then took a deep breath to gather his scattered thoughts. Finally he spoke, slowly. "Because no matter how much you learn about the Bazhir, no matter how much you respect and appreciate them, you are not one of us. Despite the fact that you're the Voice, you cannot command the obedience and respect of the tribes. I am one of them, but I'm Tortallan too. I can."

The king didn't respond, just watched him with a closed, impassive expression. Zahir shifted uneasily as the seconds ticked by, then minutes. Finally:

"Find me three perfectly round white stones as big as your fist, then we'll talk, boy."

Zahir nodded gratefully, bowed and yelped a quick, "Thank you, sire!" and took the stairs down the wall three at a time, his dream finally within reach.

Later, Zahir would blame his inadvertent enthusiasm on the lingering effects of cheap alcohol. As it was, when the Voice told him to find three white stones as large as his fist, he attempted the task with every bit of energy he possessed.

Several hours later, having skipped dinner and combed through Lindhall's rock collection and the small rocks on the Royal Way leading up to the palace, the alcohol finally wore away, the daylight faded, and Zahir gave up his search. His efforts had produced amounted only one round white stone the size of a fingernail, one jagged clear stone the appropriate size, and a yellow-ish round-ish substance he thought might be a stone, purloined from Master Lindhall.

He collapsed in his chambers and spread his spoils out on a table. He looked at them mournfully, seeing his chances of apprenticing to the Voice diminish to nothing.

Why would the king assign such a task? To test his fortitude? Seriousness?

Zahir shook his head, slowly. The man hadn't seemed eager to teach him, quite the opposite, in fact. He did everything to dissuade him, including...

He let his head hit the table with an audible smack. The Voice had sent him on a fool's mission and, like a fool, he had fallen for it.

* * *

><p>Zahir knew where to find the Voice. When he awoke the next morning, thankfully sans hangover, he checked the normal places where a normal king might reside, then ran to the curtain wall.<p>

Surprisingly, the man was not there, but as Zahir looked around from his high vantage point, he spied a long figure seated on the central roof of the palace. Of course. This couldn't be easy.

Though the curtain wall had crenellations on both sides, there was one point where a nearby building's roof was a short jump away. Zahir judged the distance, sent a brief prayer to Mithros, his ancestors, and any god who was listening, and jumped.

He landed on all fours and scrambled up before he slid off the slippery tiles onto the ground many feet below. The next roof adjoined this one, so Zahir simply had to mind his footing as he traversed the palace roof.

The king watched him approach, but thankfully did not move from his spot. "Page," he greeted as Zahir slowly drew near, each step trembling with tension as the tiling shifted at his every movement.

"Sire," breathed Zahir, somehow afraid that if he spoke too loudly, it might cause him to lose his balance and fall a very far distance.

The king sighed. "What do you want? You don't have the rocks already, do you?"

Zahir carefully lowered himself to sit by the Voice, and kept his eyes firmly on the roof tiles. If he looked away, they might tilt and slip him off, just from spite. "You don't want them, so I don't have them."

A slow clap drew his attention briefly. "That didn't take you as long as I expected, Page Zahir. I didn't think you'd ever figure it out. You've disappointed me; I expected to be rid of you."

"I want to be the Voice, sire," said Zahir quietly. "Why are you so against the idea?"

"Because it suits me to be," he replied flippantly, then turned briefly serious. "The other day, were you serious?"

Zahir knew he meant his last, presumptive response. "Yes," he said simply, believing with all of his heart that he _could_be a better Voice than this Tortallan king.

"Jump off the roof."

Zahir wasn't sure if he'd heard him correctly. "Sire?"

The king leaned back, propped up on his elbows. He waved at the space where solid ended and open space began. "Prove it. Jump off the roof."

Zahir looked at him, at the edge of the roof, back to the king, who stared impassively into the rising sun.

Surely he wouldn't let him _die_, would he?"

So it was with trembling legs that Zahir stood up and stepped out into the open air.

As he fell, air whistling past his ears, it was with mingled amusement and terror that he saw the king's face peer over the side, contorted with shock and dismay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Voice Lessons**

**Chapter Two**

The air felt oddly heavy. It pressed against his head and body, to the tips of his fingers and toes. Zahir fought to open his eyes, but it require energy, too much, and at the sound of raised, angry voices, he ceased his futile efforts and reserved his limited resources to listening.

"What do you mean, you told him to jump?" That was Lord Wyldon; he'd recognize that voice anywhere, but Zahir had never heard him sound this angry. When the man was livid, his voice dropped dangerously low.

"I didn't expect the little bastard to actually do it!" That was the king, sounding equally flustered, angry, and upset.

"You endangered the life of one of our finest pages." Zahir felt a rush of warmth at those rare words of commendation from the strict training master. "You appointed me as training master to produce loyal knights." Wyldon's soft voice was steel. "Loyal to you. Are you now complaining that I've done so?"

"Not at all, you've done a magnificent job at a thankless task, Wyldon," the king said placatingly.

"Then I shall not tender my resignation over such a gross miscarriage of honor. Provided, of course, that Page Zahir is properly compensated."

Pause. "Your majesty, what did he want?" That was the healer, Duke Baird, and the voice came from right above his head.

Another lengthy pause, then a disgruntled, "He asked to be my squire"

Another voice spoke up. Zahir thought it might be the prime minister, Gareth of Naxen, one of the king's cronies since their years as pages. "I don't understand the problem, Jon. Your last squire just underwent his Ordeal, and I know you had no intention of taking on Roald."

"He wants to be the next Voice."

"That's an interesting thought. It does remove the power from the throne, but places it in the hands of a loyal knight. A Bazhir, no less."

"You can't just _decide_to be the Voice," replied the king irritably. "Either you have the potential or you don't."

"I suggest," added Wyldon, "that it would be appropriate for you to test him by taking him as your squire. If he still wants to, after this."

A disgusted sigh. "I'm sure he does."

"I do." Zahir forced the words past numb lips, a burst of adrenaline at his revived chances giving him energy to open his eyes. He saw everyone he expected, but his eyes fixated on the king.

Duke Baird's old kindly face filled his vision. "Sleep now, page. You shouldn't even be awake yet after your healing."

As emerald-wreathed fingers reached for his face, Zahir got out the final word before the Dream God claimed him and filled the darkness of his mind with fantastical images.

"I _will_ be the Voice."

* * *

><p>Even though Zahir knew he was technically the king's squire, he hadn't seen the man for days, not even at his high haunts on the curtain wall and the palace roof. The Bazhir didn't exactly give up, but he was content to wait until his new knight-master calmed down and accepted that he was his squire.<p>

So it was surprising when Zahir happened to be walking down the corridor that housed the royal family and other important personages that he found the king on his knees in front of his door. From the sight of the thin pieces of metal in his hands, it seemed that he was picking the lock on the door.

"Did you lose your key, sire?" he asked politely.

The Voice sent him a scornful look but otherwise ignored him, then let out a soft laugh as the door popped open. He rose and was half-way inside before he replied, "If you're coming in, do so already. Close the door, too."

Zahir blinked in surprise, but followed the instructions to find the king standing in front of the fireplace, frowning.

"Do you have flint on you, squire?" he demanded.

"Ah, no, sire." When he rose that morning, Zahir had not been aware that he'd be going on a trip into the Royal Forest, or lighting fires inside the palace, so he hadn't grabbed his fire-making materials.

"No matter. Use this and light the fire."

Startled, the boy caught the negligently tossed flint, but went ahead and lit the fire with a few practiced motions, though he wondered why the Gifted king didn't start his own fire. Still, it was best not to question, he decided, not when the king had only just accepted him.

When the fire was apparently sufficiently large, the king strode towards the nearest armoire,. He took out an armful of tunics, which were then fed one by one into the growing flames.

"Sire, why are you burning your clothes?" Zahir asked slowly.

"If you want to be the Voice, you must learn to ask the right questions," said the king as he investigated a drawer and pulled out a red silk shirt. "This is from years ago," he muttered. "Does it even still fit?" That went into the fire as well, and Zahir winced.

When his knight-master picked up a small comb and tossed it into the merry blaze, Zahir had a terrible thought. "Whose room is this?"

"About time," he replied cheerfully. "_That_is the right question. This is Gary's room."

"Wait, the Prime Minister? Why are you burning his stuff?" Zahir was incredibly confused, and the growing smoke the drifted from the crackling inferno didn't help the thinking process.

"Because I can't burn Wyldon's." He looked around, found a bottle of hair lotion, and shoved it in. "I need the man, and he'd never tolerate this. But Gary has no choice." He surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction. "Wipe that distraught look off your face, squire, there are enough fire charms on the room to smother blazebalm, let alone a piddly flame or two."

With that, he strode towards a window and shoved it open, and in less than a second, stood outside looking in. "Now, either stay there or leave. I suggest you go, and not by the door. Servants should be coming at any second now." Then he was gone.

Standing in the increasingly smoky room, Zahir suddenly realized what it would look like if someone were to enter that moment. He swore, coughing on the smoke, and at the sound of running footsteps, he dove towards the window. Zahir just barely escaped in time, for he heard panicked voices as soon as he was out and over the window.

At the top of the roof perched the king. He saw his new squire, gave a cheery wave, and disappeared over the other side.

As Zahir carefully traversed the roof, he wondered if the king was really crazy, if he was that vindictive, or if he was trying to get him to quit. So far, his money was on the first option.

* * *

><p>When Zahir realized that the king was not going to start his Voice training without being prompted, he decided to take the initiative and simply ask.<p>

Surprisingly, his knight-master was not on the roof, which had been the first place Zahir checked. Nor was he on the curtain wall or in the throne room or the meeting rooms. Zahir finally broke down and asked the harried-looking Prime Minister, whose ill-fitting tunic looked hastily completed.

Zahir rolled his eyes when he set off for the king's chambers - it just seemed too _normal_- but sure enough, when he knocked briskly, a few minutes later, his new knight-master opened the door with bleary eyes.

"Yes, squire?" he grunted.

"Am I, your majesty?"

The king looked at him for a minute and sighed. "I can see this will take longer than I'd like, and you won't be put off. Come in, if you must."

Zahir followed, attempting not to lose his newfound pseudo-confidence, and sat in a chair by the fireplace - not lit, thankfully - after the king sat in the accompanying chair.

"You have something on your chest. Might as well speak and get it out." The king nursed a hot cup of tea as he spoke.

"You say I'm your squire, but I haven't done anything," Zahir burst out. "You said I could train to be Voice, but so far all I've done is fall off the roof and help you burn the Prime Minister's wardrobe."

"That's not entirely true. You didn't fall, you stepped off the roof. Into thin air. What did you expect would happen?"

Zahir scowled. "I thought you wouldn't let me do it. I thought you were testing me, my trust in you, my resolve, not trying to kill me."

"Again with the dramatics." He rolled his eyes, but set down his cup. "You want Voice training? Here." The Voice grabbed a loose scrap of paper, a pen, and jotted down a list of titles. "Read one or all of these. I won't test you on them, and I don't expect you to find them all. Mithros," he added, peering quizzically at the last title, "I'm not sure this one even exists. And _that_one is certainly not in Corus. Perhaps in the City of the Gods?"

Zahir looked doubtfully at the growing list. "Which is the most important?"

The king shrugged. "Why ask me? I haven't read them." With a last few jots, he yawned and stood up in with leisurely stretch. "I must go to fulfill my kingly duties. Since you are officially my squire, I suppose you may call me Jonathan. None of this 'Voice' or 'majesty' business. It gets quite old."

Zahir watched the king's - no, Jonathan's - retreating back, then grabbed the paper.

His heart sank as he read the list.

Zahir had never heard of the titles, and three of them were underlined, two were starred, one had a question mark, another an exclamation point, and the last a sad face.

* * *

><p>"Squire."<p>

Zahir jumped, his attention fully engrossed by the odd book in front of him. "Your majesty!" He quickly got to his feet. When the king coughed, he amended hastily, "Jonathan."

Jonathan grinned and gestured at the stacks of books. "Working hard?"

Zahir looked at the myriad of titles with a rueful and exasperated glance. Of the nineteen titles his knight-master had given him, there was not one with a common topic, or even one pertinent to the Bazhir, or even kings. They included: a Yamani dissertation on Scanran poetry, a diary of a clay-pot maker, a travelogue based in old Tyra, a ornithologist's listing of exotic Carthaki birds, and a theoretical treatise on the improper usage of a hairbrush by Justin of Beiber in Tusaine.

"Ah." Jonathan nodded sagely. "Hardly working. That's more like it. Anyway, squire, I've decided that I've neglected your physical training long enough. Even if you never become Voice," and the significant glance he give Zahir made his opinion quite clear, "you still need to be a good knight. Therefore, arms training!"

Zahir couldn't complain; he'd been itching to go into the practice courts all day, and at least he'd know where to find the useless materials next time.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This installment contains a bit of dialogue lovingly stolen from Patrick Rothfuss. Namely, the facts (of which the last is not true), and the last scene, altered.

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><p><strong>Voice Lessons<strong>  
><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

The first time Zahir saw evidence that Jonathan actually had special Voice powers, he nearly rejected it straight out. It seemed ridiculous at the time, but as he learned more about the king, he came to the reluctant conclusion that there _was_something about being Voice that required innate potential. Zahir wasn't sure whether he possessed that special something, but he hoped so. If he didn't, it would make this strange partnership with the king much more useless.

Jonathan _was_ strange, of that there was no doubt. The only question was whether he was always slightly mad, or if becoming the Voice had overloaded his mind to some extent. Most times, he acted quite normally, especially in public fulfilling his kingly duties, but as soon as he was alone, Jonathan was downright _weird_.

Take for instance the one day he had summoned Zahir to his chambers, thrust a handful of fluffy seeds under his nose, and ordered him to say how many there were. Without counting.

Zahir had been quite flustered, understandably, and had stammered something about 'a lot.' Jon had rolled his eyes and sighed, to which Zahir had demanded, slightly petulantly, how many actually actually were in his hand.

Then the odd part happened. Jonathan had looked at the pile of seeds, then looked _inward_, and intoned in a strange voice, 'thirty-seven main stems, with a total of two thousand, eight hundred and four individual seeds.'

Zahir stood flabbergasted until Jonathan happened to inhale one of the fluffy bits and proceeded to cough and hack for five straight minutes. It was likely more than that, as Zahir had simply left when the king managed to get the seed out only to inhale one of the ones floating around the air.

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><p>"Squire."<p>

By now, months into their loose partnership they called 'squire' and 'knight-master,' Zahir didn't jump anymore when Jonathan gave his customary greeting. The Bazhir thought the lack of reaction rather disappointed the king.

"Jonathan," he acknowledged without opening his eyes. He was performing a very slow practice dance with the sword, one that required intense concentration and muscle control, and the sweat trickling down his back was an unwelcome irritant. As was the king, for that matter, as if that ever stopped the man.

"I'm bored, squire. Name me a fact."

That was another new game of Jonathan's. At any time, at any moment, Zahir would be pressed to divulge an interesting fact that the king didn't know. If he was successful, the man would go off and ponder it for a while. If he wasn't, or couldn't think of any unique bits of trivial knowledge, the king might pester him for an hour before getting bored.

After a month of this, however, Zahir knew to keep a stock of facts just in case.

"It is physically impossible to lick your elbow."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, licked one finger, and touched it to his elbow. "False. Try again."

"The loose flap of skin at the tip of your elbow is called the wenis."

"Did you think I was never a boy, squire?"

"In 410 BHE, a Scanran warlord demanded three thousand pounds of pepper to ransom a city."

Jonathan paused at that one. "Interes- nope. History _bores _me, squire."

Moving into the most difficult part of his routine, Zahir used his last resort, a bizarre fact positively ensured to entertain the king.

"There's a type of dog in the desert that gives birth through a vestigal penis."

Zahir peeked through his closed eyes to see the flabbergasted expression on Jonathan's face. He couldn't help but smirk slightly.

"_Really_? How did I not know this one? Great work, squire! I have to lord this over Gary." With a firm slap on the back, Jonathan strode hastily into the palace.

Unfortunately for Zahir, that slap had occurred when he was balanced just on the toes of one foot, and it nearly knocked him to the ground. He scowled, sighed, and started over. Such was the life of the Voice's squire.

* * *

><p>"There are many mysteries in the world, squire. Name one."<p>

Zahir bit back his first reaction - _how a crazy man managed to become both Voice and King_- and thought for a second. "The existence of immortals."

Jonathan shook his head and perched himself on the table Zahir was using for his books. "Nothing so concrete. Try a theoretical concept. How would you explain the unexplainable?"

Zahir accepted the rapid change in topic. After so many months, such a small thing barely warranted a second thought. "Is nothing unexplainable, with enough time?"

"Explain to me Gary's joke last night. The terrible one."

Zahir winced. That had been a particularly horrid joke with numerous terrible puns that should never have been contemplated, let alone mashed together. "I can't," he admitted.

Jonathan nodded sagely. "Of course not. How would you explain what you feel when you're tilting, when the horse and you are connected, when you lean forward and extend your arm and lance as one and make one perfect contact..."

Zahir blinked; those words had been oddly hypnotic, especially coming from Jonathan. "It would be difficult, but I think I could put it into words."

"To someone afraid of horses? To someone who has never seen a horse or a lance?"

The squire shook his head. "That wouldn't be easy. I might could, but I could never impart the true feeling to someone incapable of experiencing it."

"And so we make progress, my young squire." Jonathan folded his hands on one leg and grinned happily. "Admitting your ignorance is the first step towards knowledge."

"You could also try teaching for a change," Zahir muttered. "That might work; it'd at least be different."

"And here lies the root of your problem." Jon sighed. "You are like a young boy who first discovers the magic of breasts. Fascinated, you stare at them, obsess over them. You could try to court and woo a lady to feel them, but you're too impatient. That takes too much time and doesn't guarantee success, or perhaps too much success. Instead," he grabbed one of Zahir's hands and pressed it to his chest, "you reach out and grab any passing breasts in the hope that they'll fulfill your need."

Jonathan leaned closer to Zahir and whispered in his ear. "I'm trying to wake up your sleeping mind, squire. You need to stop touching my tits."


	4. Chapter 4

**Voice Lessons**  
><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

The armed soldiers led their horses through the thick woods. At a pre-arranged location, they stopped as one and mounted. Zahir looked across the open path and saw the glinting of metal as the other half of the squad stood in silent anticipation.

He yawned as he idly scratched his growing beard, pleased that he was finally getting to see combat.

It was three years into his squiredom with the King and Voice, and Zahir had lost all hope. He was resigned that he could never be the Voice, that he lacked some essential innate quality. It seemed that Jonathan had too, as for the first year and a half, the king had only grown more bizarre. Zahir assumed the man thought it would wake up his 'sleeping mind,' whatever that was. Perhaps it got bored easily.

Still, Jonathan had seemed inexplicably upset when it appeared that Zahir was incapable of becoming the next Voice. Considering what he had gone through to convince the man, that was quite odd, but Zahir was both relieved and disappointed. In the past six months, they'd moved to a more traditional knight-squire relationship, though Jonathan still asked him for random interesting facts, which Zahir was able to answer now without thinking.

So now, Jonathan loaned Zahir out on occasion to patrolling Riders or the Own in order to give him practical experience. This was the first time the Bazhir would see fighting up close.

There was a rather troublesome group of bandits plaguing the eastern hills; it was believed they included a mage rather skilled in illusions, but they'd finally been tracked to a location hidden deep in the forest. The two Rider squads had decided to create an ambush, as their campsite was too secure for a direct attack without Own backup.

As they waited, sweat trickling down their faces, Zahir felt an inexplicable sensation of danger. He glanced around unobtrusively, but the empty road provided cold comfort. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if being watched, and something ticked at his mind.

Ignoring the hissed warnings of the Riders, Zahir turned his horse around and peered at the thick underbrush.

_There_.

He drew his sword with the dull hiss of metal, and in the other hand, readied a throwing knife. For what, he didn't know, but it was important.

When the sharp _crack_of a branch sounded under the crowded trees, Zahir flicked his wrist and the knife plunged towards the noise. At a strangled gasp, Zahir shouted.

"To the rear!"

* * *

><p>It was a chaotic battle, and Zahir hoped that not all fights were like this one.<p>

Their plan shot to hell, their planned ambush turned into a counter-ambush, the Riders and Zahir fought for their lives. On horseback in the trees and not the open trail as planned, they were at a severe disadvantage against an enemy that melted nimbly back into the shadows.

To his horror, Zahir saw a Rider fall, then another. It seemed impossible, as if they were playing a child's war game, as he had back in his tents as a child and then as a page. That ominous red spreading over skin and staining clothes was not blood. He wanted to shout at them, the people who had cheerily welcomed a noble interloper, to tell them that this wasn't funny.

Somehow, as his sword arm lifted and fell and blocked and cut, Zahir found that he wanted Jonathan.

As if thinking about the man had summoned them, memories played out in Zahir's mind until they were a mismash of Jon's words and images.

_I'm trying to waken your sleeping mind..._

_You've got to relax..._

_Stop thinking and concentrate..._

_Wake up! _

His mind cracked in two, maybe three. Zahir couldn't tell, but something or things shifted, and the world slowed and became different.

The forest began to fill with red, dangerous fog that coalesced into the shapes of men. As Zahir watched, he realized that they _were_men, or at least forecasted their movements. Bandits, real and solid, followed precisely, as if the bloody clouds directed them as puppets.

A scraggly-haired barbarian that rushed him with a long, two-handed sword; Zahir could tell where he would move next. The red cloud formed arms and legs and torso, and Zahir could even make out the man's savage expression. He saw the arms lift, and then the bandit's real arms lift, and realized that the man was about to attack him.

Then, it was as if a cloud of white drifted in front of him, and as the man moved - slowly, much too slowly - Zahir saw white arms wielding a blade and executing a perfect block. The white was his own path, he realized distantly. It was the best counter to block the strike and save his life.

Zahir impassively felt his sword raise up and deflect the blow that still seemed much too slow, and then he followed up by watching the white cloud of a ghostly arm slipping between the bandit's defenses, and reciprocated it more smoothly than he'd ever practiced.

Next he saw a giant man bare his teeth at the closest Rider, and he saw that the bandit was about to skewer the Rider Commander in his undefended back.

Zahir let himself fall into the lull and flow of the white clouds. He blocked the blade, killed the man, then danced away as he followed the correct path into the knot of attackers. Zahir lost count of the number of men he killed or the number of blows thrown at him that seemed to move through water.

At the end, Zahir blinked, and everything shifted back to normal. No clouds, red or white, and a crippling, agonizing pain in his head. He sat down hard on the the ground and cradled his head in his hands. Voice gathered around him, wonderous wonderful alive voices, and they gently lowered his upper body to the ground.

Zahir didn't look up when he heard the thundering hooves of horses on the trail, not even when the Riders gasped that the king was here and how did he know?

"Your squire saved our lives, Your Majesty," admitted Evin, the commander of the Rider's group. "I can't explain how he moved so quickly or how he knew who was in most danger, but I turned around and saw him kill a bandit who attacked my back. I would have died without him."

"Jon?" The world was fuzzy. The trees above him moved in a circle; they couldn't really do that, could they?

"I'm here, squire." Jonathan sounded more sober than he remembered.

"How?"

A soft cool hand landed on his forehead, and Zahir felt safe. "I knew you needed me."

* * *

><p>Zahir and Jon were at the palace in the rooms that had become a type of sanctuary, a shield from prodding questions and expressions of disbelief from people who could not believe that a lowly squire could single-handily save an entire Rider group.<p>

Inside Jon's chambers, all was quiet but for the soft clinks of tea cups against platters and the quiet sound of two men contemplating deep thoughts.

Finally, Zahir set aside his self-imposed silence, and the words tumbled forth as a dammed river overflowing.

"I felt it. I didn't know what it was at first, but I felt a warning; I heard a soundless cry and I somehow knew they were there. Then, something else happened. My mind, it split, it cracked, something gave. I saw shadows of what would be, of what should be, but there was more, too.

"It was as If I could look at a man and know him. Not name, age, or anything foolish like that. I knew him, who he was, his aspirations, his lost dreams. His failures. His motivations. The first man I killed? All he wanted was to feed his little girl, barely six years old. He left her in a village with his parents and told her he was going to Corus to find work. He didn't want her to know.

"Then the man who was about to kill Evin Larse? Larse's blonde hair reminded him of a lover he had who had framed him for less money than I have in my purse." He touched the nearly-empty coin-sack at his belt. "How can I be glad about killing them?"

Jon shook his head. "You can't, Zahir. That is the secret burden the Voice must carry his entire life. Taking a life will never get easy."

"No." Zahir's voice rang out like a deep bell. "There was one man there. He just liked blood. He liked to see it run in rivers down lifeless faces, into mouths, pooling on the skin. I'm glad I killed him." Then he shrunk again. "And I feel terrible for not regretting that I stole his life."

"Knowledge is a terrible sword, Zahir, for it cuts both ways."

"Does this mean I will be the Voice?" Zahir sounded both hopeful and reluctant, filled with trepidation.

Jon was silent for a long minute, and when he spoke, he sounded haunted as if by ghosts. "You might escape it, even though you've awoken your sleeping mind. You could fill your days with endless toil and your nights with never-ending distractions. You could never let down your guard, never cease moving or thinking, and you might live again without ever feeling like this."

Zahir shuddered. "This, every day?"

"It creeps at the corner of your mind. You can't control it, but it flashes at the worst moments, when you're looking at a friend and see him lie, when you think of your wife and suddenly realize that she no longer loves you."

"If, if I become Voice, does it go away for you?"

"Oh Zahir, weren't you listening?" Jon said sadly. "I said it never goes away. What you experienced is but a shadow of my every day, my every hour."

"But, how do you live?" breathed Zahir. "I'm going mad over a few minutes of it, but you... I don't understand. Why _wouldn't_you want to pass it on to someone else? Why did you fight against training me?"

Jon bowed his head. "No one should have this power, and I wouldn't damn a child with it, not even if he begged."

_Which I did._

The two men were silent, one lost in dreams of what was, the other in what could have been. Finally, Jon stood up and touched Zahir on the shoulder. "Whatever you decide," he said quietly, "tell me in the morning. If you want to leave Tortall and ride until you don't feel so numb, I will accept it."

Zahir nodded and touched Jon's hand in return. "Thank you."

"One more thing, Zahir." The squire looked up to the king as he stood before the door. "That first man you killed, do you remember in what village he used to live?"

"Yes," said Zahir, slowly. "Why?"

Jon shrugged. "No reason, but I heard that Thayet's seamstress is looking for an apprentice. A very young apprentice." With that last remark, the king strolled away, thumb shoved through belt loops, a rising tune whistling from his lips.

When Zahir didn't show up the next morning at his doors, Jon said nothing.

When Zahir appeared after a week's absence, Jon said nothing, not even when Thayet informed him in passing that her seamstress had picked up a lovely little girl as a stray.


	5. Chapter 5

**Voice Lessons**  
><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

Even though Zahir had full possession of the horrors that awaited him as Voice, he decided to continue - or rather, begin - his training. Having experienced a glimpse of the true burden that awaited, that of terrible foreknowledge, Zahir undertook it soberly.

It was only now that the reasons for Jon's behavior became clear.

In silence, Zahir felt dark tendrils of unnatural thoughts and truths linger. It was worse around people, for as his unconscious thoughts turned to them, so did his sleeping mind, and truths that he never wanted to know flooded his mind. Somehow, whenever he was around his knight-master, his mind fell silent. Jon told him it was because their awoken minds found another, and so they had lots of mindsex until they fell asleep, exhausted. Zahir doubted this explanation. He contributed the phenomena to the minds respecting each other's privacy.

In solitude, he could control himself better, and Jon assured him that eventually he'd have iron-clad control. It was easier for Zahir when he preoccupied himself, whether by training or by reading, or if he removed himself from people and sat alone. Jon's predilection for perching on rooftops was immediately understandable, and Zahir quickly gained a fondness for the slippery tiles and the slight ever-present danger that both sharpened his mind and inexplicably allowed him to relax.

Since his adventure with the Riders, people could often find their monarch and his squire seated silently on the palace roof. Sometimes they gazed into the distance. Sometimes they watched the slow progression of the sun and the stars.

Zahir had a new-found appreciation for bizarre facts that could hold his attention.

* * *

><p>The first time Zahir consciously called his sleeping mind, Jon was gently coaxing him with detailed instructions.<p>

By that, of course, they both were more than slightly drunk, barefoot, and leaning over the top of the palace roof to look down.

Zahir saw a bored-looking guardsman on the curtain wall, and wondered what the man thought of seeing his monarch prance along the rooftops.

The idle thought was quickly answered by a deluge of information, and Zahir stumbled as it crashed into his mind. Jon grabbed him to prevent him from pitching over the edge, but Zahir could not stop laughing.

"You _dance naked _in the rain?" he gasped, clutching his sides.

"What?" Jon peered at the guardsman, then his expression lightened. "Ah, I see. Hello, Franklin!" He waved at the other man, who grudgingly waved back. "He's usually on duty during the best storms," Jon confided. "You'll get to see him in a few days. The weather mages say there's a gigantic one on its way."

Zahir blinked away the lingering laziness from the wine. "Wait. We're going to be up here during a thunderstorm? Aren't you afraid we'll get struck by lightning?"

The question was more of a demand, but Jon merely shrugged and batted it away with a flighty hand. "It'll hit Balor's Needle first. We're hardly the tallest object in the area."

"At least we'll be clothed, right Jon?" Silence.

"Right, Jon?" Zahir said, a bit desperately. The silence was _not_ comforting.

* * *

><p>The weather mages were accurate as always. As they sat, shivering slightly in the crisp air that forewarned of the coming storm, Zahir asked Jon something he'd been meaning to for days.<p>

"In our legends, it is said that the Voice cannot die without training a successor. Is that true?"

Jon scoffed. "Of course not." He picked at his fingernails. "To an extent. Voices are not known for putting themselves in harms way. The type of foreknowledge you experienced against those bandits is a last-ditch resort, but yes, it is remarkably difficult to kill a Voice."

"Besides," he continued with a suddenly hollow voice, "it's a gift from the gods. Fragile mortals cannot be trusted not to die unexpectedly."

"Has it been done before?"

Jon paused as he consulted the past Voices in his mind. "Only once," he answered slowly, "but there was a half-trained apprentice that managed to hold on to his sanity once the mantle of the Voice passed to him."

Zahir felt a chill run through his body that was unrelated to the weather. "People go mad?"

"Not if they're trained well. Which means that you might have some difficulties..." he trailed off, then laughed at the dismayed look on Zahir's face. "Come on, you already know that I'm half-mad. Does it seem so terrible?"

The squire grumbled just slightly and shifted as the rain began to fall, tinkling as tiny bells against the clay tiles. That Jon didn't want to answer directly could not be a good sign, but it was the only one he was going to get.

"Jon, when I am Voice,"- that was a certainty by now, right? - "you will lose much of your abilities. Aren't you concerned that you cannot be a good king without it?"

The king snorted. "When you become Voice, I will have lived with this burden for nearly forty years. It will leave its mark on me, have no fear of that, and I would be a poor king indeed if I needed to rely on such a crutch."

A loud crack of thunder echoed above them, and Zahir flinched. The deluge of rain began a breath later, leaving both of them soaked within seconds.

Jon laughed the open, delighted laugh of a child. He rose to his feet, hands outstretched, face upturned to the sky.

Zahir wondered at the man's intense joy, his pleasure in such a small thing as rain.

"Come on, squire," said Jon cheerfully. Then his voice grew increasingly hypnotic. "Relax. Feel the rain beat against your skin. Memorize the sensation of everything flowing away, of the tension and the stress, of the voices in the back of your mind, let them fade away until all you hear is the pitter-patter of raindrops."

As Jon began, Zahir reluctantly stood up, but as the flow of his words echoed and soothed him, he began to relax. All of his worries and fears drifted away until they were unimportant, until the only thing that mattered was the rhythmic beat of rain against his body.

* * *

><p>By the time Zahir was ready to become the Voice, Jon was ready to give it up. He'd carried the double burden of kingship and Voice for over three decades, and though they helped each other, the stress of them both pulled at Jon, causing him to resort to more eccentric and bizarre measures to keep control.<p>

Jon kept his sanity and held back the power that always sought to escape by distracting himself, so Zahir humored the man as he came up withe new schemes and ideas.

Once Jon ordered Zahir to drink a pint of brandy, run the curtain wall and back, and then read from the Book of Gold. This happened after they received the first report about the terrible killing machines in Scanra. For a brief hour, Jon did not look so pale and drawn when he guffawed and chortled as Zahir fumbled his way through the names.

Another time, after word came about the massacre of Commander Glaisdan and others of the First Company, Jon had Zahir see how long he could remain awake. For those five days, Zahir made sure to be nearby so that when the king needed a distraction by his sleep-deprived friend, he was easily found.

So when the two men faced each other over the smoldering coals of a ritualistic fire, Jon was eager to hand over his burden, and Zahir was willing to take it, if only to ease Jon's pain.

It was without ceremony that each slashed a long cut down the length of their forearms. Unlike at Jon's investiture, there were no watching tribesmen or anxious lovers. It was only a Bazhir and a King, two knights, two friends, two Voices.

"Two as One," intoned Jon. The fire spurted, just once.

"Two as One," Zahir repeated. The sky above gave a single ominous rumble.

"Two as One, and Many." There was a hint of power in the air that rose steadily, almost audible, like a high-pitched whistle.

"Two as One, and Many." The words felt heavy. They weighed down his tongue and made it reluctant to move.

Jon began to sweat, the power rising, becoming tangible in the air. "One as Many." Clouds rolled in, as if summoned.

"One as Many," Zahir breathed, feeling a great pressure on his mind that grew and grew until something shifted.

The crack of a lightning bolt filled the clearing, and two figures staggered away from each other.

One fell to the ground in the shock of something gained.

The other looked into the obscured sun as if seeing it for the first time. The sky wept, and Jon with it, tears of a relieved burden long carried, and tears of loss of something intimately lost.

"Jon, it hurts," moaned Zahir as he curled up on the ground, clutching his head as it throbbed from the mental anguish of suddenly hearing a thousand thousand voices crying out in joy.

Jon shoved away his own bewildering emotions and fell to his friend's side. "You're alright, Zahir," he said soothingly. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Remember our first thunderstorm years ago? This is just like that. Accept them, accept their intrusion into your mind, feel their elation as you feel the raindrops on your skin."

The rain began falling more heavily, plastering hair to their heads. Zahir barely felt it. Jon ignored the cold that began to seep into his bones. "Absorb them, feel them, but let them roll off you, Zahir. Like raindrops. You recognize them, welcome them, but you are unaffected. Don't fight them, Zahir. Relax."

Slowly slowly, Zahir heard Jon's stream of words. He felt the steady hand that grounded him, reminded him of who he was, brought him safely from the chaos of a cacophony of jubilance. The pain began to die away, and Zahir remembered who he was.

"They, they are happy," he said with wonder, finally meeting Jon's eyes. "The Bazhir."

"So am I," Jon choked out.

"Thank you, Zahir, for releasing me."


	6. Epilogue

**Voice Lessons**  
><strong>Epilogue<strong>

After the Voice ceremony, Zahir found that he could not easily control his increased powers. They seemed oily, viscous, unnatural, and he felt uneasy carrying a divine power that set him above and apart from the other mortals. For years, he struggled to live a normal life, but he could not absorb himself in banalities as Jon had; he was too serious, yet if he had been stronger, he could have borne up against the struggle, could have forced himself to live.

Many times, Zahir wished he had never approached Jon, never begged or strove for what he could not understand until it was too late to turn away. If not for the fact that the Voice was an integral part of Bazhir culture, Zahir would have been very willing to let the unnatural powers die with him, to never burden another with the terrible price of knowledge.

As it was, though Zahir was the best choice for Voice, one that struck a solid compromise between the Northern Country and the Bazhir, becoming Voice was wrong for him.

Becoming Voice had changed him. Zahir knew this and accepted it, as there was no other alternative. However, he coped with the burden in ways different than Jon could.

Zahir had never been as gregarious as Jon. More prone to contemplation, he lived away from people. Though his rooms were at the palace, he mostly only slept in them, and only when the weather was disagreable. Most of the time, Zahir spent on the palace roof. He thought of Jon often, for he had plenty of time to do so.

He watched the sun and the moon, the stars in the sky, the minature people many feet below. Zahir cared not for his growing eccentric reputation. He communed with the Bazhir, became their spiritual leader and authority, and the rest of his time was spent as he wished. Jon understood, even though he was sad that Zahir distanced himself from humanity.

Zahir did not lack for company. Often, Jon joined him. The king was much calmer now that the majority of the power had passed on to Zahir, but the remnants still drove him to eccentricities that baffled and amused his friends.

But most of all, it was the soft breath of the wind on his face that was his companion, or the warmth emanating from the clay tiles, or the gentle touch of rain as the clouds emptied their tears on him.

Then, many years later, Zahir felt a different presence on the roof. At first he dismissed it for a page, as occasionally the noble boys might gather the courage to approach the 'crazy Bazhir.' Then the person came closer, slowly, tentatively, much as he had done twenty years prior on his first escapade on the rooftops when he sought out Jon.

Zahir closed his eyes, savoring the warm pressure of sunlight, filling his mind with it rather than the still figure beside him.

"Voice?"

It was only then that Zahir actually looked at the person. To his pleasant surprise - pleasant because he had few surprises these days, making the emotion rather novel - it was a tiny girl, her dark brown eyes intense and anxious. Zahir turned away before he knew too much, but the glance was enough to tell him that she was an adolescent, a byblow of a Bazhir and a careless laundry woman, and that she lived in the royal palace with her Tortallan mother and the man of the week.

"Don't fall, Basilah," he said softly. He smiled when she stiffened slightly, then relaxed.

"Yes, Voice."

Basilah sat next to Zahir that day. When she returned the next day, he said nothing.

On the third day, she spoke again. "Voice?"

"Basilah."

"Will you teach me?"

Zahir never moved a muscle. "No."

The child said no more that day, or the next.

On the fifth day, she asked again. "Voice?"

"Basilah."

"Will you teach me?'

Again, Zahir never moved, though his answer was different. "Why?"

The girl gave an eloquent answer, ranging from politics to practicality, one that could have come from the mouth of any Master at the Royal University. Zahir opened his mind a crack, and his suspicion proved correct. Basilah spied on the Masters as they taught, soaking up knowledge eagerly and greedily, despite the scorn of her mother.

Because he needed to stop the girl, he asked, "Does your mother know how you spend your days?"

Basilah closed her mouth with a snap. She muttered a soft, broken, "No," and fled the roof.

She didn't come back for the next two days, but on the third, the seventh since her initial appearance, the little Bazhir girl returned.

She asked her question, and Zahir asked his. "Why?"

This time, she did not recite a carefully rehearsed answer, one not her own for all that the words belonged to her. This time, she simply said, "Because I must learn."

Zahir looked then at the grave little girl who fit her name. He opened his mind fully, and felt the truth. She was the next Voice, and her sharp little mind and calm acceptance would awaken her sleeping mind - that rare quality necessary to be Voice - if he did not.

She would be stronger than he, better than he, as Zahir had been a better Voice than Jon.

When Jon next visited Zahir on the rooftops, the silent figure of a small grave girl sat close, almost touching. He joined them, marveled at the brave child who did not fear the King, and was glad for his friend, who finally could pass on the burden. Not now, not for many years, but eventually, Zahir would be free.


End file.
